“And the mental illness with all the religious mania—alcohol and drugs don’t help.” Shell takes a deep, shaky breath.
Why? Why? Why? my brain yells. Why weren’t my parents stronger? Why didn’t they get help? Everything has to have a reason, doesn’t it?
It’s so unfair.
I’d felt so guilty when I got taken away. It was never my fault. I’m the kid. They were supposed to protect me.
The judges are tasting the Showstoppers now. I turn up the volume to fill the silence. What would I give to be in that tent, crunching into those monsters and houses made of gingerbread, instead of right here? Someone’s Godzilla-like cookie falls over, and everyone jumps, including me.
Suzanne rubs my back and I let her. We watch the show silently for a minute. “I wish it could’ve been different,” I say at last in a teeny-tiny voice.
I think about my dad sitting alone and reading my letter, and a hollow spot opens inside me. But then the taste of resentment as strong as those salad greens comes into my mouth. “I still want to get my ears done,” I say in a low voice. “I don’t care what he thinks.”
Suzanne and Shell look at each other again. Shell nods. “Okay,” Suzanne says. “I’ll take you this weekend.”
Chapter 29
I’m down for the rest of the week. I go to the pie shop every day, but I don’t feel like baking anymore. “Do I have to go to work?” I ask Shell on Thursday morning.
“Of course not.” Shell inhales. “Feed the chickens. Do your chores. Maybe visit with Señora Vasquez.”
I shrug halfheartedly. “Okay.”
As soon as Shell leaves, I add more food to my laundry basket. It’s overflowing. But this time I don’t feel any relief when I do it. I don’t feel anything at all.
I don’t care if Dad ever gets me. I don’t think I want him to.
I go back downstairs and turn on cartoons, only getting up to feed the animals and to make myself food. Other than that, I stay on the couch all day. When Jay knocks at the door in the afternoon, I don’t answer.
I just want to keep my mind turned off for a while.
On Saturday, Shell specifically asks me to go to the shop. “I don’t want to,” I say.
“I need your help with something. Please.” Shell never asks like this, so out of surprise, I agree.
When we get there, Mr. Miniver, Claudia, María, and Jay all greet me like I’ve been away at war. I say hi to them and follow Shell, who’s barreling into the back room. She opens the walk-in refrigerator to reveal a stack of plastic flats. Strawberries. Lots of them. “Well, Miss Cady. Looks like the public has voted and we’ve gotten a new flavor.”
For the first time since I learned about my mom, I smile and get the excited, floaty feeling I usually get when I think about pie. “Really?”
Shell nods. “For the first time in my history, I am offering a third option. All because of you.” She holds up her hand and I give it a good hard smack. “Well done,” she says in a British Mary Berry voice, and I almost cry, I’m so happy.
“Thanks, Shell. I won’t let you down.” I go put on my apron and wash my hands. This is going to take my help. My heart pounds as I think of all the pie we’re going to make. And I remember what Mr. Miniver said. “Did you talk to Mr. Miniver, Shell?”
She nods. “It’s not the worst idea, but I’m not ready. I told him I’d think it over.”
Think it over is one step closer. I’m excited.
María grabs Shell’s arm. “Shell. Cady’s got the right idea. Remember the football fund-raiser? We should do the apple fennel raisin pie, too.” María gestures with her hands as if she’s pointing at a sign. “Made with local ingredients. That could be how we stand out.”
“We could get more fennel!” Jay pumps his fist.
Shell’s forehead furrows. “I don’t know. We’re going to need a lot. And what if you accidentally get some that’s been sprayed?”
“The ranger told me all the safe places,” Jay says.
Shell throws her hands up to the sky. “You win. You’ve worn me down!”
“We need advertising.” I turn to Claudia, who’s behind the counter. “Claudia can draw something up.”
She shakes her head. “I could ask Gable.”
I shake my head back at her. “Why don’t you want to try?”
“Come on, mi hija,” María says. “Just a little flyer.”
“What would it even be?”
I look around. Apples? Every other pie shop has pictures of apples. A picture of pie? Too obvious. Then I see Mr. Miniver in his pioneer getup. I point. “Put him in it. He’s pretty much our mascot anyway.”
“Hey,” Mr. Miniver says. “I resemble that.”
Jay sticks his face in front of Claudia’s. “Or use me. I’m the most adorable one here!”
“I don’t want to scare the customers.” Claudia turns away, her long hair only partly hiding a little smile. “I’ll see what I can come up with.”
Suzanne takes me to Gable’s dad’s shop in the afternoon. “You ready for this?” He gestures to the back room, where there’s nothing but a dentist-like chair that leans back.
Suzanne grips my shoulders. “She is.”
But as soon as I see the chair, I want to leave. I think of Dad again, and the tone in my note. I didn’t ask him, I told him.
It’s like me getting my ears pierced means I don’t care about him at all as a father anymore. That I’ll do what I want and not care about his opinion. And why shouldn’t it be like that, after what Shell and Suzanne told me?
But something stops me. Maybe he wanted to protect my memory of Mom. If I knew she was like him, then I would have had nothing at all to hold on to during those hard years. I would have felt like even more of a nothing.
Somehow it seems important that I hear from him first.
“I changed my mind,” I say to Suzanne quietly.
“Sure,” she says, to my relief. In fact, she smiles really big at me.
“You’re not mad?”
“No. I’m happy you’re finally comfortable enough to change your mind with us.” She hugs me to her. Gable’s dad watches us with his brows raised, no doubt thinking we’re kind of weird.
I’m okay with that.
Chapter 30
The following week, I get ready for a field trip with Jay’s youth group. Jay goes to the local Catholic church every Sunday. Which is definitely not where Dad would want me going. He doesn’t trust Catholics. Or Baptists, or Lutherans or Episcopalians or Evangelicals. Jay assures me that there are lots of kids who aren’t church members going.
The beach! It’s been forever since I’ve been there. Dad used to take me sometimes, but I didn’t have a real swimsuit so I just paddled my feet.
Shell let me pick out a brand-new bathing suit before this trip. The one I chose is a turquoise one-piece with matching board shorts. Shell added a rash guard, which basically is a T-shirt made out of swimsuit material. “This will protect you from the sun,” Shell told me. “Along with a hat and lots of sunblock.” She got me a hat, too, with flaps on the sides and hanging down the back.
It’s a clear, hot day. I can’t wait to get to the water. I try on the hat. I look like Goofy. Everyone’s going to laugh at me. I leave the hat in my bedroom and head downstairs.
Shell puts two twenty-dollar bills into my palm. “For the fee and lunch.”
I turn the money over in my hand. “I could stay home.” Forty dollars could buy a lot of strawberries.
Shell sees that look. “Cady. We’re fine. Don’t worry.” She stares at my head. “Go get your hat.”
“Fine.” I run upstairs and grab the hat. Inside, I’m pleased. Shell cares about whether or not I get sunburned. I fly back down. “Happy?”
“Very.” She squeezes a huge glob of sunscreen into her hand. “Let me get your back.”
Most of the middle school comes, along with the youth group leader, Miss Mia, and some parent chaperones. We go to Belmont Park at Mission B
each, where a big wooden roller coaster stands guard above buildings full of games and rides and, of course, the ocean. I have a wristband for minigolf, something called Sky Ropes, and bumper cars. Then we go into a souvenir shop and Jay buys a tiny snow globe for Esmeralda, who’s too young for the trip, and I buy a poster of a San Diego beach sunset.
It feels like a different planet from Julian, with the wetter air. It smells different too—like sunblock and popcorn, but also like salt air. The sun beats down hot on my skin and I’m glad I have the hat.
Before lunch, the group of us sit on the wall that separates the wide concrete boardwalk from the beach, watching the various kinds of people—people in running gear, on skateboards, tourists with cameras, teenagers, parents with strollers—go by. People in every age group, color, shape, and size.
My dad and I used to come here and sit on the wall and people-watch, too. We’d dip our feet in the water, use the cold outdoor showers to rinse off as best we could. I’d always get a sunburn. Today a man dressed in a tattered olive-green trench coat sits on the wall, drinking from a Big Gulp cup and reading a raggedy paperback. Another cup sits at his feet. Dozens of people walk by and don’t seem to notice him.
My arm hair stands up. That could be Dad, I realize. Almost invisible. Alone. The series of problems—my parents’ issues, then Mom’s death, then him getting worse, then losing his job and falling behind on rent—maybe if just one of those things hadn’t happened, we would have been okay. But once we lost our place, he was never able to save up enough to lease a new one.
Dad always said we were digging ourselves out of a quicksand hole. What we’d needed was a rope.
The man stands up and scratches his rib cage, all without letting go of the book or the Big Gulp cup.
“Ew,” a girl sitting next to me says. “Do you think he has fleas?”
My breath goes all shaky. Should I tell them about me? Should I not? I stand up from the wall and face the group. I want them to like me, but I can’t sit here all quiet. If they don’t like what I’m about to say, then I don’t want to be friends with any of them. “They’re here because there are showers and bathrooms,” I say. “Do you know they keep the public bathrooms downtown locked?”
The whole group goes quiet, staring at me.
“I mean, it’s not like being homeless is exactly fun. You don’t know what’s happened to him.” I stare at the sidewalk, halfway hoping it’ll open up and swallow me. I ignore that sensation.
“Cady’s right,” Miss Mia says at last. “We should practice kindness in our words and actions.” She smiles. “Come on, let’s go swimming.” She shepherds the group back to the water.
“Sheesh,” the girl who made the comment whispers to me. “You’re a little sensitive.”
Jay leans over so his face is right next to the girl’s. “She’s just not a jerk,” he whispers back.
I walk over to the man, Jay following. As I get closer I smell the man’s odor—the clothes that haven’t been washed, alcohol, body. Like Dad at his worst. Now that I’ve been living with Shell the smell seems overwhelming.
Jay grabs my arm. “Don’t talk to him. He could be dangerous.”
I shake away. “I can tell he’s not. He’s not talking to himself. He’s reading.” I stand in front of the man. “Hi.”
He squints. Sand’s caked in the wrinkles of his face and most of his teeth are brown or missing. He looks surprised. “Hi,” he croaks, as if he’s not used to speaking.
I want to talk to him like a regular human. The way I’d want someone to speak to me. “Is that a good book?”
He nods, turns it over. The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring. “My favorite.”
I can smell the alcohol mixed into his soda. Again my heart aches, thinking of my father. “When was the last time you ate?”
He shrugs. “Not very hungry anymore.”
I’ve got twenty-four dollars left after the trip fee and poster. I hold out the cash. “Here.” I won’t be able to eat lunch, but I’ll survive.
His eyes dart from me to Jay to the money, then he makes some noise in his throat, clutches it to his chest, and shuffles off.
I wonder if he ever had a family. A kid. Someone who misses him.
A police officer rides up on a bike. “Was he bothering you?” Her voice sounds deep with concern. “Did you give him money? You shouldn’t.” She looks at Jay, then at me. “Are you guys okay?”
We both nod. I’m not afraid, because she’s just making sure we’re fine. She smiles at us in a friendly way. “Are your parents around here someplace?”
Jay stiffens. I hear his breathing go funny.
Then I remember. He’s told me that sometimes, if a police officer suspects someone’s undocumented, they call up immigration right then and there. In fact, one time his mom’s purse got stolen, and she didn’t report it, in case she got deported. Even when they really need help, it’s too dangerous to take it.
But I’m with Jay today. In my new swimsuit and dorky sun hat, I look like a kid who “belongs” here. That shouldn’t be true, but that’s how it is. I speak up fast. “We’re here with a church group.” I point toward them. “We’re fine, thank you.”
“Okay.” The police officer rides off. “You kids be careful. Not everyone’s nice around here. Stick with your group!”
Jay relaxes. “I thought we were goners.”
“That lady was nice. Mostly, police want to help you.” I think of my grandfather, whose picture is in the police museum.
“Yeah,” Jay says unconvinced. Then he shakes himself all over, like Jacques shaking water off his fur. “Come on. Let’s split a Dole Whip.”
I’m too glad to get back to having fun. My mouth begins watering, imagining the cold pineapple sugar. “Sheer perfection,” I answer in my Mary Berry British voice.
August
735 Pies Down
265 to Go
Chapter 31
At the end of the first week that we’ve had new flavors, Suzanne and I are making breakfast. Bacon and eggs. She uses long chopsticks to move the bacon in the pan. I try, but I’m not good enough at holding them yet.
“Hey.” Shell comes into the room so suddenly that Tom jumps out of his post on the kitchen chair. “These two new pies outsold our two regular flavors!” She peers at me and Suzanne over her reading glasses.
“Well, high-five!” Suzanne jumps up and down. I give her a super–high five, so hard she pretends to fall over. “Girl, we need to get you in the boxing ring.”
I flex. “I know, right?”
Suzanne holds up her hand for Shell. “Up high!”
Shell does a super-soft slap. “Let’s just see how it goes.” She exhales a big sigh. “We’re not out of the woods yet. Not by far.” She shuffles off.
Something’s wrong with Shell. I don’t know what it is, but she’s just got to be cheered up soon.
Suzanne looks at me and shrugs. “Well, Cady. Want to work on your room today?”
We’re going to paint the walls my favorite color, green. Mr. Miniver actually got me the paint, matching it to a pair of the jeans I got at Old Navy—a soft mint. Now Suzanne and I cover the furniture and floors with rolls of heavy clear plastic. She and I push the dresser into the center of the room and open the window. “We don’t want to die in here from the fumes,” Suzanne says with a grin.
Next, she shows me how to mix up the paint with a stick and pour it into a long tray, then how to dip the roller brush in it so there are no drips. She demonstrates how to use the roller on the wall, going in sort of a V shape, then hands it to me. “You do the walls and I’ll get the edges.” She holds up an angled brush and climbs onto a stepladder.
Cautiously I try it myself. My roller’s too full of paint so it drips, but I quickly roll it over those, too. It’s hard to go over the little gaps between the panels, and Suzanne says it’ll take two coats. “Then you can put up your sunset poster, and maybe we can get that big chair out of the other bedroom fo
r you. I don’t know if you’ve seen it—it’s currently being a quilt holder.” Suzanne snorts. “What do you think?” Suzanne’s high up on the ladder, straining to reach the parts by the ceiling.
I pause. “Um, Suzanne, is that safe?”
“Sure it is.” She’s up on the part where it says DO NOT USE AS STEP. I put down the roller and steady the ladder with my hand. “Cady, I’m fine.”
“Get down from there.” Shell’s striding in, pushing up her sleeves. “Let me do that.”
“I’m perfectly capable.” Suzanne’s arm looks like it might pop out of her socket as she tries to extend the brush.
“You’re capable, you’re just too short.” Shell holds out her hand, and Suzanne takes it and climbs down. “You get the part by the floor.”
Suzanne salutes her. “Yes, ma’am. You can take the girl out of the Marines, but you can’t take the Marines out of the girl.”
I’m just relieved Shell shook off her crabbiness enough to help. We paint quietly for a while, until Suzanne says we need music and takes out her phone.
“Play some old Johnny Cash,” Shell says. “We’ve got to introduce Cady to him.” Suzanne puts on “Ring of Fire” and Shell sings along off-key. “How do you like that?”
I squint. “I might like it better without, um, the accompaniment.”
Shell laughs. “Fine. I know singing’s not my strong suit.”
So that’s how we spend the morning, painting my room with Johnny Cash and some other random old music I don’t know. My room. At noon, Shell has to go to the shop, but she promises to clean out the rest of the closet later so I’ll have it all, and then Suzanne and I go to the extra room and take the pile of quilts off the chair. It’s covered in a rose-printed white-and-pink fabric. “Shell isn’t a big fan of flowery stuff. It was from my old place.” Suzanne runs her hand over it. “It’s so comfy, I could never bear to get rid of it. Even if it is just a quilt holder.”
Summer of a Thousand Pies Page 18
